


Somewhere Just South of Heaven

by jdrush



Series: Doing It To Country Songs [7]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Banter, Boykisses, Cute Dogs, Domestic Bliss, Humour, M/M, so much teeth-rotting fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25287454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: “It's hard to believe that it's been two years since the night Rafe and I met, and we're still together.”   Joshua Faraday reflects on his relationship with Rafael Vasquez.   Takes place approximately one year after "I'm Just Plain Crazy 'Bout a Lot of Things, Baby (But I'm Ten Times Crazier About You)".
Relationships: Joshua Faraday/Vasquez
Series: Doing It To Country Songs [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1475423
Comments: 11
Kudos: 13





	Somewhere Just South of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> RATING: PG-13, for mild m/m affection, language, and boykisses  
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. I'm just having a little fun with them. I received no money for this story. Title comes from a Blake Shelton song but no one is surprised by that, right?  
> AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the final story in my 'Doing it to Country Songs' series. I had so much fun writing these stories, and I'm so thankful for all the comments and feedback. I really love these two idiots, and I'm happy others enjoyed their journey.  
> AUTHOR'S NOTES PART DOS: As always, all Spanish comes from Google Translate. No betas were harmed in the making of this fic. All mistakes are mine.

TITLE: Somewhere Just South Of Heaven  
AUTHOR: J.D. Rush  
FANDOM: Magnificent Seven (2016)  
PAIRING: Faraday/Vasquez  
RATING: PG-13, for mild m/m affection, language, and boykisses  
SUMMARY: “It's hard to believe that it's been two years since the night Rafe and I met, and we're still together.” Joshua Faraday reflects on his relationship with Rafael Vasquez.  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. I'm just having a little fun with them. I received no money for this story. Title comes from a Blake Shelton song but no one is surprised by that, right?  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the final story in my 'Doing it to Country Songs' series. I had so much fun writing these stories, and I'm so thankful for all the comments and feedback. I really love these two idiots, and I'm happy others enjoyed their journey.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES PART DOS: As always, all Spanish comes from Google Translate. No betas were harmed in the making of this fic. All mistakes are mine.

I awaken to the pleasant aromas of bacon and coffee drifting through the condo. Roll over, blearily look at the clock. 8:32. Shit! I'm late for work. Jump out of bed and grab some underwear from the bureau. I'm just dragging them over my hips when I remember it's Sunday.

Welcome to my life.

Realizing I have plenty of time now—and really wanting a cup of that coffee—I make a quick trip the bathroom then pad down the hallway, careful not to trip on Ethel, who is sitting in the middle of the floor chewing on a sock, despite having more toys than Santa's workshop. MY sock, I notice with a grimace. She looks up at me as I approach and barks, stubby little tail thumping happily. I give her a quick scratch behind the ear, and get a couple more yips for my trouble. I find myself smiling. I can never stay mad at that sweet face. Never thought I'd ever own a second dog, and certainly not a Welsh Corgi, but Rafe had thought Mimi was lonely and should have a playmate. Well, that's what he SAID. Personally, I think he just wanted another dog, and as we've all learned by now, whatever Rafe wants, Rafe gets.

I had protested, of course, for all the good it did me. Meems can be a handful at times, and I didn't think I could deal with two dogs on my own while Rafe was away on his long photoshoots, but he assured me that wouldn't happen. After some heated negotiations, I finally agreed, on the condition that I got to name our new pup.

Rafe probably regrets that decision, but I'm sure my old Gran—bless her soul—would have gotten a kick out of it.

And I'll give Rafe credit. For the most part, he has stayed true to his word. He still travels, of course. He loves his job and I would never dream of asking him to give it up, although I miss him like hell when he's gone. Before we got Ethel, he took me along on a couple of his shorter assignments. He showed me so many new and amazing sights, and even managed to convince me to pose for him once. Page 28 of his latest photobook: “Naked silhouette of man on beach.” You can't see my face, just my backside, which he insists is my best side anyway. I'm still proud of it, though. Proud of him, too.

But these days the trips are not as frequent, and you're just as likely to find him at home taking pictures of 'his girls'—as he fondly calls the dogs—as you will see him photographing nature's greatest splendors. He keeps talking about making them the stars of his next book, or perhaps producing a dog calendar. I don't know how serious he is, but he seems to be happy and at peace.

He's not the only one.

It's hard to believe that it's been two years since the night we met, and we're still together. We've even survived living together this past year, which is a shock to everyone, myself most of all. Never really saw myself as the domestic type. I've moved around so much in my life that the thought of settling down with someone was completely foreign to me. And while Rafe and I obviously cared about each other and enjoyed one another's company, it was still a surprise when he asked me to move in with him. I had no idea he'd want to do something so serious, and I was scared shitless it'd be a mistake, but I'm really glad I took the leap.

When I look around the condo, I see my flannel tops and Seahawks team jerseys mingled with silk shirts and designer suits in the bedroom closet. My shaving cream and disposable razor rest side by side on the bathroom sink with expensive hair gels and fancy skin care products. My 'Fast and Furious' DVD's are mixed together with foreign films and nature documentaries. Containers of Chinese take-out and left-over pizza sit in the fridge next to health foods and fresh veggies.

It's not Rafe's condo anymore. It's our home. The first real home I've ever known.

It shouldn't work. WE shouldn't work. I'm messy and impulsive. He's neat and precise. I'm loud and reckless. He's quiet and thoughtful. I'm a moody loner. He makes friends at the drop of a hat. I call him my hot tamale. He calls me things in Spanish that can't be repeated in front of children.

But against the odds, we DO work, and it's been great. For two men who weren't supposed to be good with 'more', we're actually doing quite well.

It's not all peaches and cream, of course. We both have fiery tempers and short fuses, which can result in some very intense arguments. But like most fires, they burn hot and fast, then quickly die out, which usually leads to some fantastic make-up sex, which is never a bad thing.

Then again the sex is always fantastic with us. I've managed to move up to #2 on his list. He won't tell me who #1 is. Or else he's just messing with me. Either way, it gives me motivation to do better, which he seems to appreciate.

The rush I used to get from going all in on a winning poker hand I now get whenever he smiles at me. I get more drunk on his kisses than I ever did on the finest whiskey. He makes me want to be a better man, someone who is worthy of him. I took Emma's advice to heart and have worked hard to get my personal shit together. I eat healthier now. Well, a bit. I've cut down on the on-line poker, so my bank account is a bit healthier, too. I exercise more, although I refuse to go jogging with Rafe—I do have my limits after all. And I don't drink as much as I used to, which is a relief to my friends, as they've told me on more than one occasion.

Most importantly, I'm happier. A lot happier.

What does Rafe get out of the deal? As he requested on our first date, I make him laugh, I treat him well, I make him crazy in a good way, and I'm a good kisser. I also routinely surprise him with a pastry or two from the corner bakery because, as I've come to learn, everyone deserves a treat once in a while.

I'm so lost in thoughts of Rafe that I momentarily forget I'm not alone, something that Ethel seeks to rectify by licking my bare foot. I manage to stifle a startled shriek, which sounds too much like a giggle for my tastes. A macho male giggle, but still. Stupid dog. I lean down to scold her but end up just giving her another ear-scratch before continuing along the hallway—its walls covered with photos of Rafe and me, our families and friends, and far too many of the dogs—on my way towards the kitchen.

I stop in the doorway, just enjoying the view that greets me. There's the full coffee pot, of course, calling to me like a beacon. But I'm more fascinated by the figure standing three feet to the left of the coffee pot, studiously turning bacon over in a fry pan, Maria sitting on the floor by his side, watching with eager anticipation. Yet again, I find myself in awe of him. Not just the beauty on the outside but on the inside, too. There's an inner glow that just seems to radiate from him and lights up any room he's in. Sunshine in human form.

Dammit, I really have to stop reading his stupid poetry books.

He's wearing that silk bathrobe he picked up last year during an assignment in Kyoto, Japan. A silly, impractical little ruby-red thing decorated with colourful embroidered flowers that barely hits him at mid-thigh thanks to his mile-long legs. He has obviously tied it wrong again since it's hanging halfway off his right shoulder, leaving a nice patch of tan skin on display, highlighted by the love bite I planted there last night, and I think to myself that nothing in the world could be sexier than the vision in front of me.

He chooses that moment to bend down and give Mimi a bit of cooked bacon—and he wonders why we can't get her trained!—causing his robe to hike up until I can see an inch or two of bare bottom. All right. I take it back. There WAS something sexier after all. The flash of flesh is over in an instant, as he stands back up and resumes preparing breakfast.

The temptation to be closer to him becomes too much for me. Sidling up behind him, I slide my hands under the hem of the robe. The feel of his warm skin beneath my fingers almost makes me groan with desire, and I press my body flush against his. “You're up,” I whisper, kissing him below the ear.

“Seems I'm not the only one,” he deadpans, wiggling his butt against my morning hard-on.

“What can I say? You drive me wild,” I murmur as I nuzzle his neck, causing him to chuckle. He smells delicious: traces of his herbal shampoo, the fading lingering scent of his Giorgio Armani cologne, and something else, something earthier. I recognize it as the aroma of sex. OUR sex. Musky and spicy and masculine. He hasn't washed last night's lovemaking off yet. The scent is clinging to his skin, making my mouth water.

And my cock throb.

A couple more kisses that he seems to ignore, and I comment, “Shoulda stayed in bed.”

“I was hungry. Thought the girls might be, too.”

“Yeah, well, the other furball is busy chewing up one of my socks," I grouse.

“That's not a nice thing to say about our baby,” he chides. “And if you didn't leave your clothes all over the place, Ethel wouldn't be able to steal your socks.”

“So you're saying it's my fault?”

“Isn't it always?” Removing the bacon from the pan with a set of thongs, he places it on a paper-towel covered plate with the others that are already done before adding fresh slices to the pan. “She doesn't like the new kibble you bought her,” he says with a sigh. “I think it's upsetting her tummy.”

“More likely it's all the socks she keeps eating,” I mutter.

“I told you to get organic.”

“And I told you we're not gonna pay more for her food than we do for ours.” A man's gotta put his foot down sometimes. The three of them already have me wrapped around their little fingers. Or paws. Or whatever.

“Maybe she'd stop eating all your socks if you got her some healthy food that she likes,” he says with a knowing grin.

I roll my eyes. He knows me too well, and can play me like he beloved Gibson to get what he wants. “Fine,” I announce with an overly-dramatic huff. “I'll pick some up on my way home from work Monday.”

“Gracias.” Having won, he turns his attention back to the bacon. I watch him for a few moments, my hands sliding higher up his thighs, until my fingertips brush lightly over his cock, still soft for now, but not for much longer if I have any say in the matter.

“Querido (dear), what are you doing?” he asks, suspiciously.

“Isn't it obvious?”

“I'm trying to cook here, cabrón, (bastard)" ,” he admonishes without much conviction.

“Me, too. What's your point?”

With that, he turns in my arms, smiles wickedly, and shoves a piece of cooked bacon into my mouth. “That'll keep you out of trouble for a few seconds,” he teases, then with a quick kiss to my nose, he turns back to his task.

He hums a happy little tune as he works. It's very soothing, and I find myself swaying my hips in time to the notes. Rafe begins swaying with me and soon we are moving as one in an almost silent dance.

He begins adding words to the melody, and I recognize the song as an old Spanish lullaby he sometimes sings to the dogs. I had been right when I told him he had a good singing voice. He's still shy about it, though, so I'm one of the lucky few who ever gets to hear it.

And in that quiet, peaceful moment, the two of us enjoying just being together on a beautiful summer morning, I understand how much I've come to love this man, regardless of his finicky ways and his insatiable sweet tooth and his needlessly excessive wardrobe. I love all of him, and I know I always will.

I kiss his cheek and whisper, “Marry me,” so low I almost don't hear it myself. My heartfelt request is met with a bark of laughter, which is not quite the reaction I had anticipated. “What's so funny?” I demand.

“Do you know how many times you've said that to me?” he chuckles, fiddling with the bacon.

“And I don't recall you ever giving me an answer,” I counter.

He turns around to look at me. “I'll answer when you ask me seriously.”

“Babe, I'm as serious as a heart attack.”

“You asked me to marry you on our first date because I made you a home-cooked meal,” he reminds me.

“In my defense, it was an excellent meal.”

“And at Sam's Halloween party.”

“Blame Red. He's the one who brought the Fireball Whiskey.”

“And every time your Seahawks score a touchdown.”

“Not EVERY touchdown.”

“And that night behind Horne's hunting lodge, when I was sucking your. . .”

“Okay! I get it!” I cut him off before he can finish that embarrassing sentence. “I didn't realize you were keeping score. But this time is different.”

He gives me an amused smirk. “Sure, guero. If you say so.”

“I do say so. I want this every day,” gesturing towards him and the stove with my chin.

“Bacon and eggs?” he asks, puzzled. “That won't be good for your cholesterol.”

“No, not bacon and eggs. I mean . . . I want every morning to begin like this. With you and me and our stupid dogs and that ridiculous bathrobe.”

“It's a kimono.”

“That ridiculous kimono.”

“It's not ridiculous,” he insists.

“It absolutely is, and so are you, and I just. . .” I feel myself getting flustered, so I stop talking and heave a big sigh. This is NOT going the way I expected it to. Taking a moment to get my thoughts in order, I try again. “You know I'm not really good with words, Rafe. I may not be the smartest man you've ever been with. Or the richest. Or the best looking.” I pause, but he stays silent. “You're supposed to argue that point.”

He grins. “I know, but I wanted to see where you're going with this.”

I just glare at him. “As I was saying, I know you could do so much better than me, and sometimes I wonder why you chose me.”

“I wonder the same thing, too,” he laughs

Am I really proposing to this infuriating man? God help me. “Where was I?”

“Telling me I have poor taste in men, apparently.”

“APPARENTLY, so do I.” He responds to that with a low snicker because of course he does. With a deep breath, I pick up where I left off. “Rafe, you're the best thing that ever has or ever will happen to me and I know I'm really fucking lucky to have you in my life and. . .well, I always want you in it. My life, I mean.”

It's at that point Rafe must sense this is different than all the other times I've offhandedly suggested marriage. His brow furrows in confusion. “Joshua, what are you saying?” he asks, tentatively.

“I'm saying that I love you, Rafael Mauricio Vasquez, and only you, so I ask you again. . . ” Should I kneel? It'd be more romantic. But that's not really my style. Then again maybe romantic is the way to go. Before I can talk myself out of it, I find myself dropping as gracefully as I can to my knee. This is it. The biggest gamble of my life. I reach up and take his hand in mine as I ask, “¿Te casarías conmigo?” (will you marry me)

My Spanish is very limited—mostly just curse words and the pet names that Rafe seems to favour instead of using my actual name—but this phrase I had learned on my own, in case I ever needed it. I never thought I'd be proposing to Rafe today, wearing just a pair of old boxer shorts and kneeling in our kitchen, but it feels so goddamn right it can't be wrong.

Then again, maybe it is.

Rafe just looks down at me for a beat or two. I can't read the expression on his face, and I fear I've made a huge mistake. Maybe I asked too soon? Or maybe he didn't feel the same way? Did he even WANT to get married? As he said, we had joked about it but never actually TALKED about it.

Just as I'm wondering if there's a way I can invent time-travel in the next few seconds and restart this entire conversation, he wrinkles his nose and declares, “Your pronunciation is atrocious.”

Jesus wept! Should have known he would ruin this moment. Honestly, is this REALLY the man I want to saddle myself with for the rest of my life?

Fuck yeah, I really do.

I drop his hand and snark, “Is that a yes, you asshole?”

“Well, I don't know,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean, as you pointed out, I could do much better. Maybe I should shop around a bit more.”

“You know what?” I grunt, as I struggle up from my knees. “I changed my mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Oh, no, cariño (sweetie). You asked, so I have to answer.”

I wait a few seconds, then a few seconds more. When he still hasn't spoken, I finally bark out an exasperated, “Well?!!”

His wide-eyed innocent look doesn't fool me for a second. “I'm supposed to tell you now?”

“No, tell me at Christmas,” I reply sarcastically. “That's only five months away. I can wait.”

The smile I get is absolutely blinding. “Oh, guero. You're still so easy to tease. Of course! Si! Yes!” And the next thing I know, he's in my arms, kissing me, and I'm being pushed backwards until I'm pressed against the island in the middle of the kitchen and Rafe is still pushing himself tighter to me, almost as if he's trying to crawl into my skin and I'd let him if I could. Maybe then I'd finally have my fill of him, but I doubt it. I can't seem to get enough of this man. I don't think I'll ever get enough of him.

Somewhere in the background, I hear Maria barking, but I don't give it much mind. Neither does Rafe, if his hands in my shorts are any indication. My own hands are running up and under his robe/kimono/whatever, caressing his firm ass and pulling him even closer to me, as if that were possible. I'm seconds away from throwing him on the floor, or over the table, or across the counter—just some place where I can lay him out and make him scream—when suddenly *I'M* the one doing the screaming as something wet and sandpapery slithers across the top of my foot.

“Fucking fuck!” I cry out, as Rafe jumps back in alarm, his hands still tangled in my shorts. We both look down at the offender, only to find Ethel gazing right back at us, head tilted, with one of those 'who, ME?' looks that dogs are so good at giving.

“Goddammit, that dumb mutt just took ten years off my life!” I grumble.

“Actually, she may have just saved both of our lives,” Rafe remarks, as he manages to extract himself from my boxers, his full attention on the stove, which is smoking pretty heavily by now. Gracefully stepping over Maria, who is pacing around and still yapping, he turns the knob and shuts off the burner.

“What I want to know is why she's so obsessed with my feet,” I whine, thinking about all the socks she's destroyed.

“She can have your feet, as long as I can have the rest of you,” Rafe says, as he picks up a potholder, grabs the pan, and dumps it into the sink.

I throw open the window to air out the room. “Why didn't the smoke detector go off?”

He gives me a look. “Probably because you took the battery out the last time I made fajitas.”

Oh, right. It kept beeping and upsetting Ethel. I give him a sheepish grin. “Not one of my better ideas, huh?”

“But I didn't replace it, so it's partly my fault, too.”

Taking in the smoldering lumps of burnt bacon clinging to the blackened pan, I state the obvious. “Looks like breakfast is a washout, hon.”

“We're all safe, that's the important thing.” He reaches for one of the pieces of bacon he cooked earlier and crouches down next to Ethel. “Good girl,” he praises, feeding it to her as he scratches her ears. Determined not to be left out if bacon is being served, Maria pads over and head-butts his hand, adding a sharp yip for good measure. “Yes, yes, you were a good girl, too, pequeña (little one),” he laughs. “Hey, mijo (hon), pass me another piece.”

I shake my head, even as I do his bidding. “You know, I think you love those flea-bags more than me.”

“There's no shame coming in third,” he jokes, as he feeds Maria her treat, and gives her a chin scritch. Getting to his feet, he looks at the mess in the sink and sighs sadly. “That was my favourite pan, too.”

Coming up behind him, I wrap my arms around his waist, and give him a comforting squeeze. “How about I make it up to you by taking you to Javi's for some breakfast burritos to celebrate?”

“Mmmmm, my favorite!” he cheers, snuggling back into my embrace. “Can we take the girls?”

My lips reacquaint themselves with his neck, and he purrs happily. “Sure, why not? We'll take them to the park so they can work off all that bacon. Then we can go get you a new fry pan . . .”

“And some different food for Ethel . . .” he reminds me.

“And some more socks for me.” His hearty laughter is music to my ears. Another nibble, and I add, “Then maybe we can look at rings."

Turning to face me once more, he slips his arms around my neck, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Wow. I get a ring , too?” he teases, playfully. “You're spoiling me, guero.”

“Everyone deserves to be spoiled,” I reply, repeating one of his favourite phrases.

He leans in and brushes his lips across mine. “I'm can't wait to tell Mama and Papi about this. They're going to be so happy.”

“Mom, too. She pretty much gave up on me ever getting hitched.”

“Will she come to the ceremony?”

“Yeah, if I can track her down. I think she's been working on a sheep ranch in Washington.” His eyebrow quirks questioningly. I shrug my shoulders. “Guess she got sick of lobster.”

He chuckles at that. “She must have so many stories to tell. I can't wait to meet her.”

I already had the pleasure of meeting Rafe's whole family at Thanksgiving last year, but my mom has been a bit more elusive. I know she'll love Rafe once she meets him. After all, EVERYONE loved Rafe. It was simply a matter of getting them together in the same room. “Just a head's up—she's quite a character,” I warn him.

“I wouldn't doubt it.” He presses another kiss to my lips. “After all, I know her son.”

“Funny. Now you sound like Emma.”

“EMMA!” he suddenly exclaims. “We'll have to call her after breakfast. Or maybe we should stop by her place while we're out. I'd really love to see her face when I ask her to be my best man.”

“Does that mean we're waiting until the twins are born, or are we just going to laugh at her as waddles down the aisle?”

He slaps my shoulder and chuckles. “That's not nice, guerito.”

Leaning back against the island, I tug him until he's standing between my legs, my hands resting on his hips. “Sometimes the truth hurts.”

“What about you?” he asks with a big grin. “Who's your best man?”

That catches me off-guard. To tell the truth, I hadn't given it much thought. I always figured if I ever did get married, it would just be a quickie ceremony in Las Vegas with Elvis officiating, but I have a feeling that won't fly with Rafe.

After a moment of thinking it over, I say, “Red will kill me if I don't ask him. Then again, he might kill me if I do. I'll have to get back to you on that.”

“No, no, Red is perfect,” he decides. “Then we can make Goody and Billy groomsmen. Jack, Sam, and Matt will be ushers. My sisters will be the bridesmaids, and Rosie can be our flower girl.”

“Teddy's going to be disappointed,” I quip.

“Oh, Teddy! I almost forgot about him. He can be an usher, too.”

So, big glitzy affair it is. Oh, well, if it makes Rafe happy. “That's a lot of ushers,” I point out.

“Not for 300 guests.”

My mind short circuits. “THREE HUNDRED??!!!” I gasp. “Did you say THREE HUNDRED??!!! Please tell me you're kidding!”

“I have a lot of friends in the industry,” he replies, evenly. “I don't want offend anybody.”

“But THREE HUNDRED?!? Won't that be expensive?” I try to reason. “Like really, REALLY expensive?”

“Mijo, it's our wedding day!” he proclaims, cheerfully. “Damn the expense!”

Welp, there goes all the money I've saved up these last few months. I suppose it's better spent on a wedding than on card games. You can't take it with you, right? I skim my hands over his hips, sliding smoothly on the silky material of his kimono-thingie. “My checkbook might disagree with you there.” I try to keep it light, but the concern must be heard in my voice because the next thing I know, nimble fingers are gently caressing my ear, calming me down. Damn him. He knows all my weaknesses. 

“Don't worry, dulzura (sweetness),” he reassures me. “I'm picking up the tab.”

“I can't let you. . .” I start to protest but he cuts me off with another kiss.

“I'm the one who wants a big party, so I'm the one who pays.” He flashes me a big smile. “I deserve to treat myself, yes?”

When he smiles at me like that, I can deny him nothing. Man, he's got me whipped. If he wants a big wedding, he'll have a big wedding. It's only one day. I can survive—especially if it puts a smile like that on his face. “Of course you do. But I'm paying for the band. No arguments.”

That is definitely the right answer as he presses a kiss to my lips. “Gracias, mi corazón (thank you, my heart).” I'm still trying to wrap my head around THREE HUNDRED WEDDING GUESTS when he adds, “What do you think about Mimi and Ethel as the ring bearers?”

Yes, because that's just what this three-ring circus was missing—two hyperactive dogs. “I think they'll just run off with the rings,” I answer truthfully. “Or eat them.”

“You don't give our girls enough credit.”

“And you give them too much.” I glance down at the two troublemakers, currently fighting over a chew toy, even though, as I mentioned earlier, they have a fuck-ton of toys to choose from.

“Well, I think it'll be cute,” he states, confidently.

So delusional. It suddenly occurs to me there's one member of the family he has left out of his plans. “And how does YOUR Maria fit into this?” I joke. “Can't have a dog and pony show without a pony, after all.”

“She's not a pony, she's a majestic steed,” he replies, indignantly. “And we're having the reception at Rose Creek Stables.”

That takes me by surprise, although by that point, it probably shouldn't. “We are?” I ask, skeptically.

“Or we can ride her and Jack to the altar, if you prefer,” he suggests with a smirk.

I shake my head vehemently. “Uh-uh. No way. I'm not getting near that hell-beast again.”

“Smart move. After all, we don't want you to have a broken leg for our honeymoon.”

No, he still hasn't let me live that down. I doubt he ever will. “Got that right.”

“Speaking of honeymoons, I'm thinking Hawaii. I've always wanted to go there.”

“Seems like you've given this a lot of thought,” I observe.

“I was a sounding board when Emma was planning her wedding, and it gave me some ideas. Which reminds me, I have to get the name of the bakery that made her cake. It was. . .” and he kisses his fingers in the universal 'delicious' motion.

I chuckle at that. “Was wondering when you were going to get to the cake.”

“You only get one wedding cake in your lifetime, if you're lucky, so you've got to get it right.”

 _I certainly got lucky when I met you_ , I think but don't say. “Anything else?” I ask, sarcastically.

“I want flowers. Lots of flowers. A florist shop of flowers.”

I can't stop the indulgent smile tugging at my lips. “Whatever you want, darlin', it's yours.”

The smile he gives me is so bright it puts the Vegas strip to shame, and I swear my heart skips a beat, knowing I'll get to see that stupidly handsome face for the rest of my life. “I have all I want right here,” he says, tenderly. “Te amo (I love you).”

“Tay ahhmo,” I echo back. Badly.

He shakes his head and chuckles. “We really have to work on your pronunciation.”

“Well, we have plenty of time for that now.”

“Yes, we do,” he murmurs before pulling me in for a deep, passionate kiss, which is just fine by me, because all *I * want is Rafael Vasquez kissing me in our kitchen, wearing his ridiculous robe/kimono/whatever, while our stupid dogs play tug-of-war with a squeaky toy. This is all I'll EVER want.

My own little slice of heaven.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I know he's not in a kimono, and that's not a beagle, but here's a link of the photo that inspired the kitchen scene with Rafe and Maria: https://jd-rush.tumblr.com/post/190423049913/snowflakes000  
> (also, you like Faraday, Vasquez, Manuel or Mr. Pratt, you can look around the archive--I have lots of other posts of them)


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